


i need to take myself away (i'll just see where i land)

by someonelsesheart



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Polis, Post Season 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-11
Updated: 2015-04-11
Packaged: 2018-03-21 05:02:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3678600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/someonelsesheart/pseuds/someonelsesheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i> “The war is over,” says Clarke.</i> </p><p>  <i>“Against the Mountain Men, perhaps. But we are all fighting our own wars.” <i></i></i></p><p>  <i></i><br/>Clarke goes to Polis, makes a friend, stops a war, and learns to forgive herself for a battle she was never trained to fight.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	i need to take myself away (i'll just see where i land)

  
For two days, Clarke doesn’t sleep at all. On the third, she falls asleep under a tree and wakes up shivering as the sun rises. There’s dew on the grass and in her hair, and her hands are so cold they shake when she stands. She walks until she finds a small lake and washes the filth off her skin.

She’s still shivering when she gets out, but then the sun crests the horizon and she slowly begins to feel her toes again. She means to walk, but instead she sits and watches the sunrise. 

When she was a kid, she used to dream of sunrises. Now she dreams of blood and fire and the heavy weight of guilt and regret. Now she dreams of Raven on that table, and her mother, and the look on Octavia’s face when she found out about the missile.

Her skin is now clean, but her soul is stained.

Some things can’t be forgotten.

When she returns to where she left her packs, there’s a piece of paper there she swears wasn’t before. She unfolds it carefully, and it’s a map. There’s a small dot to indicate her location, and a line drawn across the page to a large black dot. The destination reads POLIS.

Clarke stares at that black dot for a long time.

Then she stands.

She walks until her legs ache, and sometimes she sleeps. Time passes. She doesn’t let herself stop. She doesn’t let herself think. Her supplies begin to dwindle. She keeps walking.

*

Eventually there are Grounders, there are villages, there are _people._ The closer she gets to Polis, the more densely packed the forests become.

She wants to stray on the outskirts, so they never know that she was even here. But even she cannot hide forever. She is weak, and so hungry, and her body aches. Last night she killed a rabbit with her bare hands, suffocated it then cut it up with her dagger and cooked it messily. She had certainly done it wrong. She can still taste fur in her mouth.

The second she steps into the camp there are three swords at her throat and a narrowed-eyed woman is in her path.

“ _Ai laik Klark kom Skaikru,_ ” she says.

“Ah,” says the woman, waving the warriors away. The swords cut through the air as slickly as they could slit her throat.

“ _Klark kom Heda?”_

Clarke suddenly feels exhausted and furious all at once. She says, “ _Ai laik Klark._ ” She says, “Please. _Sis ai au._ Please help me.”

*

_She dreams of red skies and hot mouths. She dreams of Lexa looming over her, her lips on Clarke’s neck, a knife in her hand. “Blood must have blood,” she whispers, and she drives the blade into Clarke’s stomach._

*

She sleeps until noon and wakes to soft humming. The woman is leaning in the doorway, arms crossed. A healer crouches beside Clarke’s bed and fixes the new bandage on her shoulder before he leaves.

The woman does not move. She says, “ _Ai laik Samrya._ I am the head of Rivagon.”

“Samrya,” Clarke repeats, turning the name over her tongue. “It’s nice to meet you. Thank you for taking me in. You didn’t have to.”

“You are Clarke of the Sky People,” says Samrya. “My people have a name for you. _Mitha._ It means legend. We have all heard of how you defeated the Mountain, Clarke. And we do not forget.”

 _Murderer,_ she thinks. _Not legend._ But she does not say it aloud.

“Does Le – does the Commander know that I’m here?”

“If she does, it is not because of my people and I. We have no obligation to tell Heda of this.”

Clarke relaxes a little. “Thank you.”

“If you go to Polis, you will see her there. You must understand that.”

“How do you know I’m going to Polis?”

Samrya takes Clarke’s map out of her pocket and passes it to her. She does not apologise. Clarke does not ask.

“Polis is magical. Full of youth. Full of vitality.” Samrya smiles wistfully. “I lived there as a child. Not anymore. I am too old now.”

She cannot be past fifty. “You are hardly old.”

“These are times of war. My people do not live long. We are lucky to live past our twenties.”

“The war is over,” says Clarke.

“Against the Mountain Men, perhaps. But we are all fighting our own wars.”

Clarke thinks about blood, about sacrifice, about the look in Lexa’s eyes when she turned away. She doesn’t say anything.

                                                              *

Clarke stays. It’s against her good judgement, at first, but she’s too weak to even stand for three days, and then she just kind of sticks around. She learns more of their culture, their language. They teach her how to fight, how to make her footsteps unheard.

Three weeks in, they name her _guld kin._ Samrya translates it to “honorary member”.

“We are a powerful village,” says Samrya. “Respected by more than just the Woods Clan. Know that when you travel, you travel with our blessing, and you may call on us in a time of need.”

Days turn into weeks that turn into months, and it’s two months before she wakes up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat. She is Clarke of the Sky People, but she is also Clarke, _guld kin_ of the people of Rivagon.

She cannot stay here forever.

She wakes early the next morning and trains with one of the villagers, a kid named Cris. She’s sweating and out of breath by the time the sun rises and she washes the dirt off her skin before she goes to see Samrya. Samrya is sitting in her tent, head dipped over plans for expansion of the village.

Clarke says, “I have to go.”

Samrya slides the papers together and sighs, pushing back her chair. When she stands, she meets Clarke’s gaze. “I knew you would have to eventually. I will send somebody to gather supplies for your trip.”

“You don’t have to –”

“As your village leader, Clarke, yes I do.” Samrya motions for Clarke to approach the desk, and she takes out a map from under a pile. She holds out her hand. “Your map, please.”

Clarke passes it to her, and she lays it beside her own. They share similarities, but there are noticeable differences, too.

“ _Klark kom_ _Skaikru,_ you were fooled by the person who gave you this map. Polis is here, by the sea.” She circles a patch of coast with her finger. “You are here.” She points to a forest-covered area two finger lengths away. “You began here, by the red dot. This map sent you west, when you need to travel east.”

"But - the villages, it became more dense, I thought I was nearing -"

"You're nearing the border to the Ice Nation, which is why there are more villages. We are called the  _battun._ We're villages of warriors designed to defend the borders." 

“I admit, I thought the only person it could be…” Clarke trails off. “I thought it was Heda.”

And look what she’s become. She’s fallen into their habits, and _Heda_ has become just as much as a myth, a legend, to her as then. Who is Lexa but _Heda,_ the Commander of the Woods Clan? Clarke thought she might have been able to love her once. She doesn’t even know who she is anymore.

Samrya’s eyes are kind. “I do not believe so, Clarke. The route this map leads you on would take you, eventually, into Ice Nation territory.”

“I thought the Ice Nation had a truce with the Woods Clan.”

“With the Woods Clan, yes, but not with the Sky People. You would be caught, tortured and eventually killed.”

Clarke’s eyes widen. “That’s why you made me _guld kin._ So they would know that they could not touch me.”

“Yes. It was to protect you.”

“Thank you. You did not have to do that.”

“You are a worthy ally, _Mitha._ Take this map and go to Polis. And may you find what you search for there.”

Clarke takes her hand and squeezes it. “Thank you, Samrya.”

“Thank _you,_ Clarke of the Sky People _._ ” 

*

_Sometimes she dreams that they start at the end. “I’m sorry, Clarke,” Lexa says, and “I may be a hypocrite, Lexa, but you’re a liar,” and “Death is not the end,” and “You’re the one who burned three hundred of my warriors alive.”_

_They start with tragedy and fall in love with the pain. Yet Clarke cannot bring herself to wish she could turn it back. She has come too far now._

*

Samrya had told her that Polis was about a ten day walk away. So she gives Clarke a horse and tells her to make it in six.

Clarke is two days in when she reaches the coast. She hops off her mount – a stubborn mare she’s named Pearl – and runs to the ocean. Her feet hit the sand, and it’s nothing like she’s ever felt before. She tastes the salt in the air, feels it on her skin.

She goes in up to her waist and spins in the water – and there’s the salt and the sand and the sun and she feels _free._ For a moment she can pretend that there’s no blood on her hands and that bones don’t crunch beneath her feet when she runs. For a moment she’s exactly what she should be: a kid who broke all her promises to the world to keep her own world safe.

Pearl whinnies, hoof-deep in the seawater, and Clarke smiles, dips under the waves before stumbling to collapse on the sand. She wrings out her hair and looks out at the horizon. A year ago, she didn’t imagine that she would ever leave the Ark, let alone get to watch the sun set against the sky.

She leans back against the sand. A tear escapes, slipping down onto the sand.

She forgives himself.

If only a little.

*

That night she dreams of nothing and wakes up refreshed. She doesn’t think about what she might find at Polis. She tries not to think at all.

*

Five days into her journey, she’s woken in the early morning by hooting.

It’s still dark. She’s found a small alcove big enough for her and Pearl, but it won’t keep them hidden for long. She makes herself as small as she can and tries not to breathe too loudly.

There are a group of them. She doesn’t recognise their markings, but they’re all dressed in black and have white streaks in their hair. They carry long knives in their hands, at their waists. They’re nearly past her.

One of their horses screams and bucks, and Pearl reacts, shuffling backwards and whinnying.

The leader of their group stops and turns, looking right at Clarke. The rest of his company automatically unsheathe their swords.

“ _Hod op,_ ” he snaps, waving them down. “She is mine.”

Clarke wastes no time. She slings her bag over her shoulder and swings onto Pearl’s back, snapping at the reigns. Pearl shoots forward, and Clarke has to grip on to avoid being forcefully thrown off.

She eventually reaches the coast again and tries to turn Pearl right at the last moment. The movement is too sharp; Pearl bucks Clarke off and dances out of her reach just as the leader thunders to a stop in from of Clarke.

“I am Thon, general of the Ice Nation,” he says. “You are my prisoner now.”

“I am Clarke of the Sky People, ally of the Woods Clan,” says Clarke, voice barely shaking. “You can’t touch me.”

“Out here all on your own? Your people will never even know, Clarke. They will merely think you were killed by a wild creature.”

“The Commander will know.”

“My Commander is powerful and ruthless. She killed your little Commander’s girlfriend on a whim. She slit her sister’s throat to get the throne. She killed her own lover’s family so that he would follow her everywhere and told him it was the Reapers.”

“Your Commander is cowardly and small. She did not risk war over Costia,” says Thon, dismounting and moving to stand above her. “She will not do so over a thin fatherless child, either.”

Clarke spits in his face. He growls, grabbing for her, but she scrambles out of his reach. She pulls her knife from her boot and holds it up defensively.

Thon looks amused. “You think you can fight _me,_ little sky girl?”

Clarke darts forward. He unsheathes his sword and slides it in an arc; she ducks and rolls to her feet. In one smooth movement, she brings the knife up and around, managing to catch him with a long gash across his shoulder.

Thon looks surprised. “I was not informed of your improved skills.” He shrugs. “It is of no consequence.” He lunges, and she blocks. Her tiny blade against his sword is an unwinnable fight; he knocks the knife from her hands and presses the tip of his blade to her throat.

“Give up, _Klark kom Skaikru._ ”

“Over my dead body,” Clarke mutters, and she throws herself backwards. She rolls down the dunes, tumbling over rocks that cut her arms, her legs, her chest. Thon follows her, but he’s too slow. She grabs the biggest rock she can find and lobs it at him. Her aim is poor; it misses, and he laughs, so he is not looking when she throws another immediately after. Her next shot is perfect. It hits him dead in the forehead, and he’s out cold within the second, blood seeping from a messy wound in his forehead.

She can hear his party approaching fast. She scrambles up the dunes and grabs her bag from where it has fallen, then sprints to where Pearl is hiding among the trees. She’s gone before her pursuers even break through the trees.

*

_The first person she ever kissed was a girl named Emilie, two years older than her. She’s one of her mother’s patients. It’s stupid. Clarke gets attached._

_The girl’s dead before the month is over._

_Some nights Clarke still dreams of her, of the soft auburn of her hair. She never got to see the beauty of Earth, but she also never had to shoot a man or kill a community. Everything is relative, she thinks._

*

Clarke reaches Polis the night of the sixth day. She knows it’s Polis because it’s impossible to miss. The walls are impossibly high, bordered by watchtowers. There are massive sturdy gates between her and the city; the gates are flanked by two guards on each side.

Clarke dismounts and leads Pearl along beside her. The guards eye with suspicion, and she understands why. She’s a mess – covered in blood and scratches and dirt, her hair a mess, eyes a little wild.

 _“Ai laik Klark kom Skaikru,_ ” she says. “ _Kom Rivagon._ ”

“ _Mitha,_ ” breathes one of the guards, and he turns on his heel and runs for the centre. Clarke is waiting there for ten minutes before the guard returns, panting. “You may enter. The Commander wishes to see you immediately.”

“Of course she does,” says Clarke, but she lets them check her for weapons. She has only one, which they permit her to keep. It’s the blood-crusted dagger she used in her fight with Thon. The blade is broken, blunt; it wouldn’t cut through shrub, let alone flesh. It is a trophy, not a threat.

Inside, Polis is something from a dream. Children run through the streets, playing; people barter over food and fabrics; guards walk the streets in patrols of four. The buildings are obviously the remains of an old city, worn and patched up, but they have a certain character to them. Some buildings are new, crafted out of stone. The air smells like spices and Polis is beautiful, beautiful, and it breaks Clarke’s heart. 

Clarke doesn’t go to Lexa. She pulls a cloak from her bag and pulls the hood low over her face. She finds herself a smoky establishment that she guesses is their version of a tavern and orders a drink. She realises belatedly that she has nothing by way of payment, and the man serving her frowns suspiciously.

A hand drops several coins onto the bar. “Her drink’s on me.”

The man nods and moves onto his next customer.

Clarke doesn’t know who she expects when she turns, but it’s not a petite woman with red hair and a smirk. She’s dressed in furs and leather, a formal armour.

“I’m Ela,” she says, pushing the drink towards Clarke. Clarke gawks at her. “This is generally the part where _you_ introduce yourself, sky girl.”

“You clearly already know who I am.”

“I’d like to hear it for myself.”

“I’m Clarke,” she says, sipping her drink. “Clarke of the Sky People.”

“ _Mitha._ ” Ela’s eyes are dancing. “Why hide your face? You are much respected here. The people love you.”

“What, as a toy of the Commander? A murderer?”

“As a hero. The children play Commander and Princess. I think some of them believe you truly _are_ a princess.”

Clarke runs a hand over her face. “God.”

“Your deities cannot save you here, darling.” Ela finishes off her own drink. “Lexa waits for you. There’s a banquet on right now. She’s hoping you’ll come.”

“She said that to you?”

“No, but I saw it in her eyes. I know her well.”

“Did she send you to collect me?”

“As if she could send me to do anything.” Ela snorts and holds out her hand. “Let me introduce myself properly, Clarke of the Sky People. I am Ela, chief of the Ocean Tribe.”

 _Chief._ “Oh. I thought you were –”

“One of the Commander’s lackeys? No.” Ela smirks. “I appreciate your honesty, though. How about this: you come with me to the banquet. If you do not want to, you do not have to speak to Lexa. You can sit with my people.”

“You’re offering to protect me?”

“I’m offering to give you _time._ ”

Clarke considers it. “Don’t you like the Commander?”

“I am rather fond of the Commander, and I’m probably the least of the 11 leaders to put a knife in her back. That, Clarke, is why I am doing this.”  

It’s a dangerous game to play, but Clarke has been navigating minefields since she took her first precious breath.

“Okay,” she says. “Okay.”

*

The banquet is held inside the palace, which the Grounders call the _Kasil._ But it _is_ a palace, surrounded by gates and guards, all escalating buildings and smooth stone walls. When they arrive at the gates, the guards let them through without a second glance. Guests mill through the courtyards, and they all stop to stare as Clarke passes. They’re dressed in battle gear with colourful paint smeared across their faces.

_“You should come with me to the capitol. Polis will change the way you think about us.”_

“They think you’re with me,” says Ela, sounding amused. “They don’t know who you are yet.”

“You said that I was some sort of legend.”

“We know names, not faces. We recognise stories, instead of pretty pictures.”

“You think I’m pretty?”

Ela just smiles.

The doors to the Kasil open before them and Ela motions for Clarke to enter first. The inside of the palace is wondrous, stone walls and floors with artwork decorating the walls. Parts of the walls are crumbling slightly, just like the rest of the city. Ela rests her hand on her sword and says, “Beautiful, isn’t it?” She winks at Clarke. “Wait until you see the Hall.”

They reach the Hall and Ela says something quietly to the young boy waiting there. He nods and opens the door for them. Clarke follows Ela into the Hall and the boy says, very clearly, “ _Ahla kom Oshanikru. Klark kom Skaikru, guld kin kom Rivagon._ ”

Clarke sees her then, sat at the very front of the room. There are twelve thrones, ten of which are taken. It seems they’ve managed to interrupt the banquet at a rather important time. Lexa is sat in the middle. When she sees Clarke, her expression does not change, but there is something in her eyes that makes Clarke want to run.

“ _Ahla_ ,” scolds one of the seated leaders, a black man with a tattoo that covers half of his face. “You’re late.”

Ela does not apologise, only smiles. “I thought you would be happy, seeing that I brought a guest, General Tomas. Besides, I am not the latest.”

“No,” says Tomas. “That place is, as always, reserved for Midas. Are you here as a representative of the Sky People, Clarke?"

"Not today."

Tomas only nods. "Welcome, then."

“ _Mochof,_ General.”

Tomas looks surprised. “You speak our –”

He is interrupted by the doors bursting open to reveal a pale-faced woman flanked by two guards. She sits in the remaining seat at the front, draping herself across it. She’s dressed in a white fur coat and wears stark red face paint striped over her eyes.

“ _Midhas, heda kom Azgeda,_ ” calls the announcer, and Clarke thinks _Midas…leader of the Ice Nation?_

She notices Lexa’s eyes tighten slightly, her mouth set in a hard line, and thinks _She is the one who killed Costia._

Midas smiles. “ _Dison laik ain,_ ” she says, looking at Clarke, and Lexa’s hand closes around the arm of the throne.

“No,” she says, voice controlled. “Sit, _Klark kom Skaikru._ ” Her eyes flicker to the table near her, but Ela waves Clarke over to her table. Clarke hesitates for the briefest moment before she sits with Ela.

“Now that we are all present,” says Tomas, “we must thank the gods for blessing us with this meal. We thank them for every fight we win, every victory we claim.”

There is a moment of silence. Lexa says, “May the banquet begin.”

*

The tables are lined with food of every sort – meats, bread, vegetables. Fruits Clarke has never seen before. Cheeses. The warriors surrounding Clarke immediately start talking at Ela in quick, colloquial Trigedasleng. Their accents are different than what Clarke is used to – since they are from a different clan, their words are strongly vowled and smooth like music – and Clarke struggles to keep up. Ela answers them with a smirk, and Clarke manages to catch something about “peace” and “Sky People” and “Commander” and something using the word “ice” and another word Clarke has never heard before.

“Ice bitch,” verifies the muscled, brash woman who had spoken. “That’s what the phrase means, _Klark kom Skaikru._ ”

Clarke’s eyebrows raise. “You’re not afraid she’ll hear you?”

“Why should we fear the Ice Queen? She would not dare try something.”

Clarke thinks about Thon, about his ugly smile. She hadn’t feared him, but something about the Ice Nation’s leader made her uneasy. She had to know that Thon had attacked her. Maybe she had even sent him to do so.

“They say she killed her own lover’s family, did you hear that?” One of the men shakes his head. “Jean. He’s the man practically draped over her, by the throne. Oblivious. He had two baby sisters. He’ll be oblivious until the day he dies, too. Not even the other Commanders want to risk an entire alliance on telling the poor fool the truth. Imagine having that much power over people’s lives, being that cold inside.”

“As I said,” says the woman, “ _ice bitch._ ”

For the rest of the conversation Clarke mostly keeps quiet, but the Ocean Tribe seem to like her despite her silence. At one point somebody comes in with a fiddle and people start dancing, laughing as they go. Clarke watches with a small smile.

Lexa doesn’t approach her. Apparently, the twelve leaders have to sit in their seats throughout the banquet; others must approach them. Ela is the exception to this, apparently. She’s invested in her people, in becoming _one_ of them instead of placing herself above them, and she refuses to sit in her throne. Clarke likes that; thinks that it’s kind of sad, that the others can’t drink and dance and joke, but Lexa seems to know Tomas rather well and spends a lot of time talking to him over their two chairs.

People bring Lexa gifts and even children to bless, kneeling before her. Clarke is about to slip out when a messenger boy touches her shoulder and says, “ _Klark kom Skaikru,_ the Ice Queen wishes to speak with you.”

Clarke panics a little, searches for Ela in the crowd for back-up. Ela is occupied, talking to one of the other leaders. She sighs and nods, just slightly. _You have no choice._

“Of course,” Clarke says quietly, and the messenger leads her to the Ice Queen’s throne. The queen is talking to a gangly man; she doesn’t even look up when Clarke approaches. The man is dressed in jewels and has a kind smile; Midas's whole attention is fixed on him. 

Clarke stands there for a few minutes, waiting for her to finish. When she doesn’t, Clarke says, “Excuse me, but you wished to speak with me, Queen Midas?”

Midas looks away from the warrior and leans back in her chair, something like annoyance flashing in her eyes. “I did, Clarke. Haven’t the Sky People taught you not to interrupt the conversations others?”

Clarke smiles, fury uncurling hot in her gut. All she says is, “My apologies.”

“You may address me as Heda.”

 _Heda is Lexa,_ Clarke thinks, but doesn’t say aloud. “Of course, Heda.”

She can feel Lexa’s eyes on her. She wonders if it worries her, to see Clarke before her enemy. Clarke cannot bring herself to be grimly satisfied; looking into the Ice Queen’s eyes, she feels only a dim fear and a bigger anger.

 _You killed a girl,_ Clarke thinks, _just because she loved a great Commander._

“I thought it was time we met, Clarke. I have heard many great things about you. May you feel welcome here in Polis.” Midas leans forward and adds very quietly, “Tell the Commander about your altercation with my general and I will send an army into the pathetic camp you Sky People call home. You will never be able to prove it was my people, because every last one of you will be dead. When the festival is over, you will return with me to the Ice Nation and become my prisoner.” She leans back in her throne and says clearly, “Do we have an understanding, Clarke?”

Clarke can only stare.

“Do we have an _understanding_ , Clarke?”

Clarke’s mouth is very dry. “Yes, _Heda_.”

 “Very good. You may return to your table now.”

Clarke doesn’t return to her table. She leaves the banquet hall and runs, but she quickly finds herself lost. Who knew this place was such a maze? She eventually finds herself in a garden, far from the entrance, and sits heavily down on one of the benches. Footsteps make her look up, and she’s relieved to see that it’s only Ela.

She pulls Clarke to her feet and says, “Nobody sleeps in the Kasil, not even the twelve commanders, but there are some lodgings nearby that the Ocean and Woods Clans are staying in while the festival is on.”

“Festival? This was for a festival?”

“Yes, did I not tell you?” Ela strides through the hallways, towing Clarke behind her. “This was part of our month-long festival to celebrate the alliance of the twelve clans. We have it once every two years. What did the Ice Queen say to you?”

Clarke hesitates for a moment. When Ela shoots her a look, she tells her – about Thon, about the Ice Queen’s threats. Everything.

Ela’s eyes darken. “I will talk to the other commanders. She cannot be allowed to behave like this.”

“Talk to the other commanders, but let me deal with it. I’ll talk to her.”

“What can _you_ do?” The words aren’t intended to be offensive, just matter-of-fact.

“Just tell me when I’ll be able to speak to her next. Get her somewhere quiet.”

“Tomorrow we are riding out to a nearby village to check the crops. You can come as my guest, and I can distract the others while you speak to her.”

“Thank you, Ela.”

Ela sighs. “I’m as good as signing your death warrant, Clarke. You better have a good plan.”

Clarke doesn’t reply. Ela shakes her head and leads them out the front entrance of the Kasil and to the barracks nearby.

*

The lodgings, as it turns out, are a set of barracks lined with close-packed beds. Clarke collapses on her bed with little complaint while Ela goes off to her private room, nodding for one of her guards to follow her. She sleeps fitfully, wakes again hours later when the drunken warriors return, Lexa among them.

When the warriors prove too loud and rowdy, Clarke slips out into the fresh air. She has a theory, see. The walls of Polis are high, but this plays to her advantage. She scales the barracks and perches atop the roof. From the roof she can jump through a window into the guard tower and take the stairs to the top. There are guard patrols still running, but she sits right atop the guard tower and they pass right under her.

The ocean crests before her, a mass of roaring blue. She takes a deep salty breath and, for the first time in months, lets herself relax.

She’s been up there for minutes when somebody jumps up beside her. She doesn’t have to turn to know who it is. “I was wondering when you’d give.”

“‘Give?’” Lexa’s voice is calm. Her face paint is streaked, as if she’d tried to remove it quickly after the banquet. It makes her look young. “I only wished to know that you were okay.”

“I’m okay, Commander.”

Lexa pales a little at the word _Commander_ but doesn’t comment.

Silence.

“Are they too loud for you? If so,” she says, “I can order them to –”

Clarke cuts her off, which could probably get her beheaded under some law in another place. “Don’t. They’re having fun.”

“Thank you for coming. You did not have to.”

“To Polis or to the banquet?”

“Both.”

“I did not come to Polis for you, Commander,” says Clarke, beginning to stand, “and I went to the banquet because Ela asked me to.”

Lexa reaches out, grabs her arm. Her grip is gentle, barely any force behind the gesture at all, but it’s enough to make Clarke sit back down again.

“Commander Ela is a trusted and powerful ally,” Lexa says, and hesitates only slightly before she adds, “And a good friend. I am glad you have her to look out for you, Clarke.”

“I don’t need protecting.”

“No. You need a friend.”

Clarke could say a lot of things then. _You could have been my friend_ or _you still could be_ or _I missed you._ Instead, she sits silently. Ela is calling the other commanders together before the ride tomorrow, so Lexa will know about Midas’ threats before Clarke sees her again. Clarke wonders if she even cares.

Midas could kill Clarke and Lexa would just call it war. _Every moment of her life is a battle,_ Clarke thinks, and wonders about the kiss.

“Lexa,” Clarke says when the other girl is standing to leave. Lexa turns at the sound of her name. “You trust me, don’t you?” The implication: _As I trusted you._

Lexa seems to war with herself for a moment; eventually, she says, “Yes. I do.”

“Tomorrow, please remember that.”

Lexa stares at her for a moment, then nods. She hops from the tower, and Clarke rushes to the edge, thinking she’ll see Lexa splattered on the ground metres below. But Lexa is gone.

*

The sun is shining the next morning, but it’s bitterly cold. Clarke pulls on her warmest coat and accepts a pair of gloves from one of the soldiers. It’s early when she leaves the barracks and she walks around Polis for a while, watching the city wake up. The sun rises as she rushes to the gate, realising she’s nearly missed the meeting time.

The only person later than Clarke is Ela, who arrives just before they leave, looking harried. There’s no time for them to talk about the results of the meeting, but the Ocean Tribe’s commander inclines her head just slightly to Clarke. If she hadn’t been paying close attention, she wouldn’t have picked up on it at all.

So she’s managed to convince the others to give Clarke time.

Lexa is waiting by the gates on her horse. Only three of the other commanders are present today, it being only a small outing. Midas is among them; the village is one of hers.

The ride is two hours, and Clarke waits for an hour to pass before she begins to drop back a little from the group. Midas is at the rear with her guards, ignoring anybody who attempts conversation with her. A few minutes later, Ela calls for a halt, saying that one of their scouts has spotted something up ahead. Midas indicates for two of her guards to go ahead to clear the way, leaving herself with only one, and dismounts.

Clarke slows until her horse is level with Midas’ and climbs down, running a hand through Pearl’s mane. The woman ignores her right until she says, “Shame about the delay.”

Midas hums. She looks right at Clarke and says, “Peculiar indeed.” She waits for Clarke to speak, eyebrows raised. “Well?”

Clarke looks pointedly at the guard. Midas seems to consider her options for a moment and must decide that Clarke isn’t dangerous enough to warrant concern, because she sends her remaining guard on ahead.

“Have you questions on the plan? It was rather simple. You give yourself to me and your people survive.”

Clarke is quiet for a moment, eyes on the ocean. She doesn’t look at Midas when she says, “I had an interesting talk with a young man at the Kasil today.”

Midas only raises an eyebrow. “A young man? Specific.” 

“Yeah, you might know him? He introduced himself as _Jeane kom Azgeda,_ your partner.”

Midas’ hands freeze on the veins.

“See, that’s funny though, right?” Clarke says, finally looking at Midas. She can see Lexa up ahead, shoulders tense as if ready to strike. “Because ‘partner’ indicates that two of you are equals.”

“This is of no concern to you.”

“He told me he lost his family a few years back,” says Clarke, ignoring the Ice Queen, “in a bandit attack. I said that I might have some knowledge of use to him about the bandits, but he said you’d killed them all. He was really quite confused.”

“You have no proof.”

“Actually, you’re wrong, I do. I have thirteen witnesses, including generals, warriors, and I’m sure I could convince a commander or two to back me.”

“Commander Lexa won’t back you, darling. She’ll betray you, just like every other time.”

“Unlike you, I have a little faith. She – among others – will back me.” Clarke smiles at Midas. “Are you willing to risk it?”

Midas is silently furious for a long moment before she spins on Clarke. Clarke braces herself for attack, but instead she just hisses, “What do you want?”

“I want you to drop your campaign against me and my people. You won’t go near the Sky People ever again. You will leave the festival early, tomorrow at the latest – I don’t care what your excuse is, or if you even make one at all. And you will stay away from Polis.”

Midas swallows, and something Clarke can’t define flashes across her face. It’s gone in a second, replaced by a small smile. “I will agree to your demands, Clarke.” She mounts her horse again as Ela calls the all-clear. “I think I rather underestimated you. You are wasted here.” She inclines her head. “There will come a day when you can no longer hold my vices against me. And when that day comes, I will come for you, _Klark kom Skaikru,_ and everything that you love.”

The leader of the Ice Nation picks up her reins. “Do not think for a second that you are better than me, Clarke _._ Just as I will sacrifice many things to protect Jean, you have done worse things for your Commander.”

“She’s not _my_ Commander.”

“Isn’t she?”

Midas snaps the reins. She’s gone before Clarke can even formulate a reply.

*

 _She’s back in Mount Weather, her hand on that lever. There’s a hand on hers. Lexa’s voice whispers in her head, “This is what a leader does_ , _Clarke. A leader kills. Kill them to protect your people.”_

_Clarke pulls the lever. The video camera flickers, and instead of the people of Mount Weather, it’s her Sky People in that room. They clutch at their faces as their skin begins to burn. The hand on hers isn’t Bellamy’s anymore._

_Clarke turns and Lexa is standing behind her. She screams._

*

“Clarke. _Clarke._ ”

Hands grip her, shaking her into awareness. Clarke sits up straight, but she’s not in her bed; she’s on something that’s _moving._ She panics and tries to escape, slipping off her horse. Her stirrups catch around her ankles at the last minute and she finds herself hanging off the side of the horse upside down.

“We’re back at Polis,” says Ela, looking like she’s fighting a smile. “You fell asleep on your horse.”

“Clearly,” Clarke replies, a little grumpily. “Can you help me –?”

“Clarke, I need to speak to you –” Lexa strides up behind Ela and stops dead in her tracks, taking in the sight before her. “Immediately.”

Clarke covers her face with her hands, but that just makes Pearl panic, sending Clarke flying off. Lexa leaps forward and catches Clarke just before she hits the ground, righting her and setting her down on her feet.

“You should be more careful,” Lexa says. Her expression is serious, but her eyes are amused. Ela says something quick in Trigedasleng. Clarke catches the words “save” and “princess”. Lexa ignores her. “Are you alright, Clarke?”

Clarke brushes mud from her face and chest, only making it worse. “Great.”

Pearl whinnies. Even her horse is laughing at her.

Lexa’s lips tug up the corner, and – here’s the thing. Sometimes Clarke wakes up screaming, trying to wipe imaginary blood from her hands. Sometimes it drives her so crazy that she _loathes_ Lexa, but it’s been a long time since Clarke remembered what it was like to want to love her.

Ela leaves with a promise to regroup at the tavern that night. They walk in silence for a while, and Clarke thinks that neither of them even know where their destination is. She doesn’t really care.

“Commander Midas is a formidable enemy, Clarke,” says Lexa. “What you did today will come back to haunt you – whether it be in one year, ten, or twenty.”

“It was what I had to do to protect my people.”

“There were other ways. The other commanders would have sent some warriors to protect your clan and all ties would have been cut to the Ice Nation.” 

And yet, the implication: war with the Ice Nation, a war Lexa had sacrificed the one she loved to avoid.

“I am not condemning your actions, Clarke. Not I. If anything, I applaud you. But you must understand the consequences.”

“I understand. When she comes, I’ll be ready.”

“You already are.” Lexa inclines her head. “You are not the Clarke I left at Mount Weather. One day you might become a better commander than even I.”

“I’m nobody’s commander.”

“Not right now. But one day.”

Clarke hums, says, “Some nights I can’t sleep at all because I think I hear their screams in the wind. There is blood on my hands that will never wash out. Children, Lexa. They were just _kids._ They didn’t deserve to die.”

“Few people deserve to die. Even fewer deserve to live.”

“And you?”

Lexa looks away. “Will you come to drink tonight?” she asks. “I understand if you do not want me around right now, but it would be more pleasant with you there.”

“Lexa,” says Clarke, faux-cheerful. “Stop acting like I’m about to stab you in the back. Of course I’ll come.”

The words aren’t harsh, but Lexa flinches at _like I’m about to stab you in the back_ and Clarke thinks _Oops._ A part of her is vindictively happy at the guilt on her face. It’s a small part.

*

Ela brings her friend, a healer of the Ocean Tribe. He’s tall and shy and smiles like an apology. His name is Cashel. He doesn’t speak English. Clarke spends the first hour getting spectacularly drunk and doesn’t plan to take anybody home until she sees Lexa talking with one of the pretty tavern girls.

Clarke’s teeth grind. She spends the second hour flirting shamelessly with Cashel in messy Trigedasleng. He’s blonde and pretty and so delicate. She takes him to a supply closet out back and fucks him with her back pressed against the hard cold wall. He’s careful and bashful and he kisses her hard.

She doesn’t go back to the tavern that night.

*

_“I love you,” Clarke says, as Lexa takes the knife._

_“I love you,” she says, as Lexa runs it across her throat._

_“I love you,” she says, and the knife hesitates. “Kill me,” Clarke dares._

_“No,” says Lexa. She takes the knife back and shakes her head as if to clear it. “No, Clarke.” She still walks away, but Clarke is alive to watch her go this time._

*

A week passes. Clarke’s relationship with Lexa is strained, but civil. She spends a lot of time with Ela and tries not to think about what will happen once Ela’s gone. Midas leaves and takes her party with her. Clarke thinks about Jean’s confused face, sometimes, and feels guilty. Not guilty enough to risk her people, but guilty enough that she wakes up in a cold sweat.

If Lexa had taken away everybody Clarke held dear and blamed it on the Mountain Men, how would Clarke feel to love such a monster?

The answer is this: Lexa wouldn’t. Lexa would never kill Clarke’s people to get what she wanted.

That thought keeps her up more nights than it doesn’t.

*

Clarke sleeps terribly. The barracks are cramped and loud, and Clarke wasn’t made for the life of a warrior. She finds herself in the guard tower more often than not, enjoying the cool air.

Sometimes Lexa follows her up. It’s the only time they can ever really talk without hiding behind lies.

“After this, will you stay in Polis?” asks Clarke one night, a week after Midas leaves.

Lexa shakes her head. “I may stay for a few days, to finish some business, but I must return to my people. After all that has happened, it is time things were returned to normal.”

“ _Is_ there a normal for you guys?”

“There is our version of ‘normal’. What is yours?”

Clarke thinks about the Ark, about her mother, about Mount Weather. She thinks about death, about how even in peacetime on the Ark people died, how it was part of life. “Point taken.”

She shivers in the night wind. Lexa eyes her and says, “You’re not comfortable in the barracks.”

This is something Lexa does: statements, not questions. Clarke rubs her hands together to warm them and says, “It’s loud. And – there’s no space. No offence to your hospitality, it’s just –”

“Different. I understand.” Lexa looks at Clarke. “You could stay in my rooms. There is more than enough space.”

“You don’t have to –”

“I know, Clarke. I could have your bed moved from the barracks. The room is too big for just me.”

“That would be nice.” She eyes Lexa. “People may talk.”

“Let them talk.”

*

True to her word, the next evening one of Lexa’s guards takes Clarke to her rooms, motions to the bed made up neatly by the window. Clarke thanks the guard and moves her few meagre belongings into the new room.

Lexa’s room is bare, but that makes sense. It’s temporary. Still, Clarke gets the feeling that no room of Lexa’s has a personal touch; Lexa is neat and organised and brutally formal.

Clarke finds her sketchbook in her bag and sits at the window, sketching the people outside as they close their stalls for the day. She’s hesitant to say _Grounders_ – she’s become _guld kin_ of Rivagon, she’s threatened the Ice Queen and she's living in Polis. Are the Grounders really so different from her at all?

Without thinking she finds herself sketching Lexa, her small smile. She finds herself wondering what Lexa looks like with her hair down, since she’s never seen it properly; she gets a little obsessed with the idea, sketching the sheerness of it as it drapes down her back, across her shoulders.

Lexa finds her like that later, when she returns from a meeting with the (now ten) commanders around sunset. She shoves the sketchbook under her covers and says, “Oh. Hi.”

“You look surprised.” Lexa strips off her shirt, because she has no boundaries. Clarke isn’t even shocked anymore. “This _is_ my room.”

“I’m not surprised, just. Never mind. It’s –”

“Are you uncomfortable?” Lexa turns, and she’s only wearing a breastband. Clarke blushes and averts her eyes. Her voice is amused when she says, “Oh, of course. Your Sky People are too afraid of their own bodies.”

Clarke hears more fabric hit the floor and blushes even harder. Lexa is in her bed by the time she looks back, and she is quiet for a moment before she asks, “Ela tells me you suggested to the  _heda kom Azgheda_ that I would be willing to take the Woods Clan to war for you.”  

“I bluffed.”

Lexa raises an eyebrow. “You did not consult me on this.”

“I didn’t need to. She believed it.”

“How did you know that Midas would agree to your terms?”

“Because she loves Jean.”

“Love is fickle. She may have loved him and been willing to sacrifice him.”

“As you did, you mean.”

Lexa looks away.

“When I spoke to Midas at the festival,” says Clarke, taking pity on her, “she was talking to Jean. The look on her face – it was _adoration,_ like she would do anything for him. She knew that if Jean found it, he would leave her. She was so cold and she loved him so much.” Clarke brings her knees to her chest and rests her chin on them, looking out into the darkness.

Lexa stands. She’s dressed in only a pair of shorts and a shirt. She looks strangely soft, so different to her usual exterior. She reaches for Clarke’s arm carefully, says, “Clarke, I am sorry.”

“No,” Clarke snaps, and suddenly all the fury she’s supressed comes bubbling to the surface. She snatches her arm back. “No, you’re _not,_ Lexa. You’re not because you still don’t regret what you did, you wouldn’t change it if you went back. You betrayed me, you left me to die, you left my _people_ to die. You kissed me and I thought I could love you, Lexa, I was so _stupid._ ” She swings her legs over the side of the bed and stands, pushing past Lexa.

But there’s nowhere to run, not now. She presses her back against the wall on the other side of the room. They stare at each other, stranded at each side, in the same room but miles away from understanding each other.

“I did what I had to do as a Commander,” Lexa says, and her voice is quiet but firm. “You are correct, I would not take it back. But that does not negate the fact that I did care for you. I knew that you would be okay.”

“I killed them _all,_ Lexa.”

“Because you had to. And that is what makes a good Commander.” Lexa inclines her head. “You sympathise with Midas. You might hate her, as I do, but you understand her love. Yet you do not understand this.”

“That’s _different._ She might not sacrifice her kingdom for Jean, but she would sacrifice anything else.”

Lexa stares at her.

Clarke says, “Oh.”

*

_She strides through the halls of Mount Weather. Everywhere war is waging, warriors being cut down by the second. Blood washes across the clean floors. Lexa follows behind Clarke, eyes so, so sad._

_“Is this so much better?” she asks. “Is it worth it, Clarke?”_

_Clarke shakes her head. “Stop it._ Stop _it. What you did was wrong –”_

_“Betraying you was immoral. But the alternative would have condemned us all. Were you willing to sleep with that on your shoulders?”_

_Clarke doesn’t have an answer for that._

*

Clarke wakes around 3AM in a cold sweat, tangled up in the sheets. She presses her head to the cool window and waits for her breathing to even out. She can hear Lexa’s soft breaths across the room.

_The alternative would have condemned us all._

Had she been wrong?

Leaving Clarke along and condemning the Sky People to certain death was horrible, but had Lexa any choice? She had said from the start that her responsibility was her people. Could Clarke have expected her to betray her clan for her?

_She might not sacrifice her kingdom for Jean, but she would sacrifice anything else._

“Clarke?” Lexa’s voice is soft with sleep. “What’s wrong?”

Clarke looks at her in the dim light of the room, and Lexa looks right back. After a moment Clarke lets out the breath she didn’t realise she’d been holding and says, “Your hair. It’s driving me insane. I keep thinking about what it looks like down. I’ve never seen it.”

Even in the dark Clarke can see Lexa’s amused smile. “ _That_ is what’s keeping you up?”

“Terrible, I know.”

Lexa pushes herself up out of bed and moves to the end of Clarke’s. She looks at the end of the bed in question and Clarke nods, shifting so that she can sit. Lexa does, and her hands go to her hair, undoing the bands that hold it back. It falls down around her face, and there’s something about that gesture, about the way Lexa’s expression is so soft in the moonlight.

Clarke cups Lexa’s cheek and kisses her.

Lexa is surprised, at first. She’s frozen beneath Clarke’s lips, and Clarke moves to pull back. Lexa stops her with a hand on her shoulder and kisses back. Clarke tangles her hand in Lexa’s hair, thinks _This is it,_ thinks _What are we going to do._

“Stop thinking,” Lexa says. She pushes Clarke back onto the bed and pulls off her shirt as she goes; Clarke mirrors the movement, and she marvels at the feeling of skin against skin. She flips them over and kisses down Lexa’s neck, runs her hands across Lexa’s breasts. She finds Lexa’s lips again, kissing her hard.

“I forgive you,” Clarke says. “Not completely, but one day…”

“One day,” Lexa agrees.

*

_“I wanted to save you,” Clarke says. The graves are spread out in front of her, dirt piled upon dirt, bones under it all. “I never wanted this to happen.”_

_Nobody replies. Of course. She’s talking to the dead. She sits down on the cold, hard dirt and looks out across the graveyard._

_She might never forgive herself for this, but she can learn to move along._

*

Polis is Polis and Lexa is Lexa and the festival comes and goes. Ela leaves, with promises that they’ll see each other again; she takes Cashel and his soft eyes with her. There are still days when all Clarke wants to do is stay in bed, and on those days Lexa leaves her alone in the day and kisses her gently at night. She is always the Commander, even when they are alone; but it’s the Commander that Clarke loves, so maybe that’s okay.

On the night they return home, Clarke meets Lexa at the gates at dawn, Pearl slow beneath her. Lexa smiles at Clarke, half-asleep on her horse, and says, “Ready?”

And they go, slowly, but that’s okay, because Lexa shows Clarke the hidden wonders, the beaches out of plain sight. They have Lexa’s guard, but they keep back, and Clarke sleeps better with Lexa there.

When they reach Camp Jaha, it’s decidedly anti-climactic. Clarke stands out of view for a long time, Lexa still beside her.

“You can do this,” Lexa says.

“I know,” Clarke says.

She doesn’t move.

“You know,” Lexa says, “my people have a saying. _Our worst enemies are inside of us_.”

Clarke thinks of Samrya saying _We are all fighting our own wars_ and swallows, hooking her bag over her shoulder. “You’ll be near?”

“Always.” Lexa kisses her properly, holding her tight like she’s afraid Clarke might disappear from beneath her. “And you too.”

“Of course,” says Clarke, and she turns away. She marches up the hill, glancing back to see Lexa walking off with her guards. When she looks back again the Commander is gone.

She turns back to the camp and takes a deep breath. _I’m home,_ she thinks, and walks up to the gates. This time she doesn’t look back.

**Author's Note:**

> I just recently saw the writers' character casts for the Ice Nation's leader and HIS second, so I've basically been joss'ed before season 3 even starts (Oops.) 
> 
> You can come cry with me at dontholdthiswarinside.tumblr.com


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